It was the jewel in Samoa's crown. Aussie tourists loved Lalomanu beach for its chalk-white sand and the few-metre stroll from beachfront villas into the clear, fish-filled waters.
But beach and ocean aside, nothing remains of the Pacific nation's most famous holiday destination.
The village, once home to eight family-run fale operations, dozens of houses and several shops, is now a barren wasteland, stripped bare by a wall of water that struck early on September 29.
Positioned on the south-eastern tip of Samoa's mainland, Lalomanu bore the full force of the Pacific tsunami, registering the biggest and fastest wave and a death toll to match.
Most of Samoa's 143 dead -- and indeed most of Australia's five victims -- died here, unable to make it up the steep bank behind the flat foreshore before the first wave struck.
The disaster transformed the village into a rubbish tip. In the days following, scores of locals could be seen scavenging through the rubble, looking for loved ones and salvageable possessions.
Bands of Red Cross, Unicef and Oxfam volunteers handed out emergency supplies, government workers orchestrated the beginnings of the clean-up and international media filled the shoreline to see first hand the scale of the tragedy.
But two months on Lalomanu is even more shocking, mostly because there is nothing.
The rubble is largely cleared, leaving an open expanse where homes once stood but families no longer feel safe living.
When we drive through we see nothing but a few stray dogs and a man napping under a tsunami-damaged car.
Locals have all relocated to the high plateau above to be nearer their plantations, now their livelihood, and away from danger, bad memories and the rumoured "ghostly cries" of those who have died.
Most plan to rebuild here with a $ST18,500 government subsidy offered to each family.
The famous beachfront, too, is barren. The shoreline and the water that laps it look postcard perfect but the space once occupied by dozens of rustic beach shacks is eerily empty.
No tourist operations have begun rebuilding, though the biggest resorts, Litia Sini and Taufua Beach Fales, have tentative plans under way.
They're understandably nervous however. The Taufua family alone lost 14 relatives in the disaster and is now considering relocating their accommodation to higher ground, with fales for day use only on the beach.
But, says Ben Taufua, it will take time, money and much planning before they are ready. In the meantime this place, usually alive with the hub-bub of tourists and locals, is deadly quiet.
The only sign of tourism recovery to be seen in this devastated corner of Upolu comes from the neighbouring village of Saleapaga.
Here Kueva Legalo and two builders hammer together wood to make three basic fales, a modest new beginning for once-popular Faofao Beach Fales.
Legalo says proudly that his will be the first to reopen, with these few shacks funding more to come.
"We had no choice, it was our only income," he said through an interpreter.
"The plan is to build and the people will come from next month and stay."
His optimism is heartening and based on the warming assumption that foreigners want to support Samoa in its recovery.
But looking around at the barren land that surrounds his construction site, it's hard to imagine tourists checking in in a matter of weeks.
With no other infrastructure in sight, and reminders of That Day in every direction, this once-stunningly picturesque spot will take more time to recover.
